Back when I was in high school, I was friends someone who was incredibly smart, gifted and a good friend. He managed to graduate at the top of of our class, and was a ferociously talented pianist. In all honesty, I thought he would get into every college he applied too. The problem was, it didn’t matter what I thought. When college decisions came out, he didn’t get into Harvard.
I always thought the greatest superpower anyone could wish for was the ability to speak the right words at the right time. Its potential would be substantial. Businessmen could use it to swing negotiations; socialites could use it attract the attention of others; politicians could use it to push their agenda across. And I? Well, I could use it to get me and my friends to calm down a bit.
My friend and I are half-heartedly considering starting a new club at Cornell. One matter we stumbled upon was how selective we wanted the club to be. Personally, I wanted it to be open to anyone, so we could attract the most students. She wanted it to be capped at a certain amount, so we could maximize our time with each member. Who was right?
Thomas Edward Lawrence was always going somewhere. As a peculiar 15-year-old boy, he and his schoolyard friend Cyril Beeson rode around burial sites in his hometown of Oxford, England, voraciously studying whatever they could and presenting their findings to the local museum. Two years later, he would ride on bike throughout France, completing survey studies and observations of medieval castles throughout the land with that same friend. A few months later, he would enroll at Oxford University to begin his studies in history. There was something weirdly contradictory about the young man.
When it comes to our education timeline, we all like to think linearly and in absolute terms. We do well in high school, go to a good college, get a job or go to graduate school. We churn through our daily homework and prep for our tests; we network and interview, conscious of putting out best foot forward to secure our career interest. The slightest derailment leads to waves of anxiety — being left behind is a fear shared amongst students here. College students don’t do well when left in uncertainty. For most Cornell undergraduates, educational purgatory can be a maddeningly stressful experience.
When I was in high school, I had two friends who were both male, and maybe more importantly, Asian. We initially met each other at the behest of our parents, who wanted us to form a robot design team and compete in tournaments. That initial plan failed, but like all Asian males, we reveled in the parental disappointment and became friends anyways. Our distinctions made us tenuous friends. One, named Noah, was always the more social of the group.
We’re constantly worried about our careers — Handshake, networking, info sessions, apply, wait, rinse, repeat. Honestly, I’m tired of it, especially after a couple of torturously long info sessions this past week, but the career machine never stops. And so, in the latest installment of career related madness, I decided to attend Cornell’s Fall Career Fair Day along with a few friends. This year’s career fair was held at Barton Hall, which proved to be a good and bad decision. Good, because the sprawling mess of career fair booths left just enough room for students to squeeze into lines to greet the recruiters.
If you ever want to see Cornell’s version of C-Span, just pop into the weekly student assembly meeting at Willard Straight Hall and observe some brash politicking. It is open to the public, and while it is not something I would recommend for a first date, it is the place to be if you care about the path Cornell is going to take in the coming months. The funny thing about student politics is that the students who sit on the assembly are still developing their political identities, and in turn their principles. As a result, we witness ideas that are more fully formed than their creators. This often leads to spouts of well intentioned dialogue that can backfire with a dramatic thud.
It’s why teens and twenty-somethings, each carrying a binder and their resumes, dressed in business attire, waddle around a room in Statler Hotel for a networking session hosted by the Royal Bank of Canada. And because I’m a business major and I have one more column due for The Sun, I decide to pull double duty and join in on the fun.
The unspoken assumption about Dyson is that a significant portion of the students want a career in finance. And not just a career in finance — on Wall Street, too. Banks! Big, bloody banks. There isn’t anything more intriguing and sexy than working on Wall Street for most students here. The most popular concentration is finance. The most popular clubs are financing and investment. The panels where banks come to meet students at Cornell are easily the most attended. I went to an entrepreneurship panel today — seven people showed up.